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2013.09.15 - Dead Men Don't Drink Rot Gut
It's a scar on the waterfront, viewed at night. Virtually unlit, save a couple surviving streelights around its perimeter, sits a facility that was, until a handful of nights ago, an import/export front reassembling heroin shipments from concealed shell-games using worldwide container ship transit to smuggle product through understaffed and undersecured ports. Once upon a time, this facility processed a large quantity of the Tri-State's Afghani product, breaking it down and preparing it for transfer to vans, which ran into nearby cities, and supplied the cartel-affiliated dealers. All those workers, all that product, vanished-- the enforcers who roamed this yard with automatics and military-style defensive emplacements? They get the dubious honor of haunting the dockyard, now roped off by police tape, investigators having come and long gone. There are chalk outlines here and there, bloodspatter, structural damage to several of the four, long warehouses laden with loading docks in the form of windows shattered outwards from within. The only inhabitation, save night-crews working in other dockyards along the once-illustrious coastline, seems to come from a trio of hobos loitering outside the dockyard's fenced perimeter-- tonight's poison of choice, cheapass bourbon. A pair of headlights spear the darkened street outside the perimeter, the car behind them not really even visible in the near blackout. As the car approaches though it's shape, it's entire sillohuette becomes clear, and it's...unusual. Not batmobile unusual, mind, but still strange for this day and age. A silver 1940 Plymouth Business Coup slides to a stop, no engine sound whatsoever, and parks, the headlights shutting off. The door opens, and a man gets out from the driver's side, closing the door behind him with a quiet 'thunk'. The Silver Ghost's overall look hasn't really changed much from the vague reports of his appearance back in the late 40s, but a few things have changed. Gone is the shirt and tie, gone are the trousers. Instead he wears a silver gray outfit akin to the costumes other heroes of the modern era wear...that, and a trench coat, and fedora. His face is covered in the full face-mask, eye-lenses a solid white, as he steps towards the trio of hobos, and looks past them toward the ship-yard "Seen anything since the coppers left, boys?" he asks, flipping out some cash he's produced from a pocket somewhere. "You don't go in there, man. Shit ain't right." It's the first piece of advice the hobos part with, and the least hesitating. The first man, wearing threadbare trousers and an old t-shirt, is joined by a second, sparking up half a cigarette, in inching forward and peering at that money. The last, slouched on the other side of their little campsite cradling the bottle, doesn't initially respond at all, he just drinks, and a weathered, leathery face peers out from under a wide-brimmed cowboy hat with surprisingly intense, icy eyes. Then the hat droops back down, and he offers nothing further to the immediate issue. Unlike his contemporaries. "Spooks're still fresh. Pissed off." The first man seems almost hungry for that cash; his eyes don't leave it even as he speaks to the Ghost. "Way I hear it some kinda animal got 'em. But.. nothin' natural." The bum's voice drops low, lower still at the intimation. The slouching cowboy grunts something that could be half an affirmation. The Ghost pulls out a crisp $50 bill, holding it out, "Keep talkin', fellas...." he says handing the first man the 50, and then pulling out another one. "What else they say?" he says, his free hand reaching inside his coat, to produce a silver cigarette case. It pops open easily, and he pulls out a few smokes as well, dropping one in front of each man, saving one for himself, which he lifts the bottom of his mask to pop into his own mouth. This is followed by a zippo lighter, which clacks open, lights his smoke, and is just as quickly stowed again. "Seen a lotta crazy stuff myself, fellas....lot's o' 'not natural' happenin' in the city these days." he adds as if to reassure the bum he's not gonna deride him for "talking crazy" "I was here." The second man offers up, more eager all of a sudden, as he lights the full cig off his duck. "Lots of shootin', lots of screamin'. Something in the shadows, tearing 'em apart. I didn't get any closer, but you can get a pretty good view of the yard up over there." A nod indicates a derelict security station that provides altitude to see over the adjacent facility's grounds, and an obvious makeshift staircase to the roof. Not particularly useful-- but it does back up the hobo's story, crazy as it is! "... Was like the night came alive." He and the first hobo cast a nervous glance towards the yard, and the Cowboy interjects, somewhat slurred and gravely, "Things like that leave a mark. Ain't for people stickin' noses into. Whaddya care anyway, fella?" That hat brim rises again, one squinty eye peering out beneath, towards the Ghost. He doesn't eye the money, he doesn't touch the cig. At least, not yet. "Them smack-dealin' fucks got what they earned. Nothin' less. Ya'll ought to be grateful." Ok, cowboy hat guy knew more than he was telling. The Ghost takes a drag off his smoke, and gives the other two bums another $10 for their trouble, and nods off down the street, looking at them. "You two...ankle it. Thanks for the info...go buy a meal, and get yourself a room or a blowjob or somethin'...." he says before focusing back on cowboy-hat guy. "Can't argue the logic there, fella....drug pushers, pimps, dirtbags...." he shrugs "All of 'em get what they deserve eventually." he says "As for grateful? Jury's still out on that one, slim...and I care, because whoever...or whatever's been doin' this shit's been leaving a name behind....a name I got a personal interest in." he says "You know anything about any of that?" "Nope." The Cowboy offers back, drily and standoffishly, with no hesitation showing it. The other pair take one good look at each other and then hoof it down the street, away from the dockyard. They can tell when someone's not so much listening to warnings as gathering information on the unwise decision they've already made. That, or they're just scared of their drunken third man. "Personal, eh. Yer boyfriend? Yer momma?" A toothy, gap-filled grin precedes a hearty chuckle at Ghost's expense, like the drunken Cowboy thinks the inquiring investigator is the funniest thing ever, and his sense of humor? Totally on target and witty. "Yer name got a motive attached? Maybe they just wanted this group fucked real bad." That part, at least, is true-- if rather incomplete! "Huh...." The Ghost says merely taking another drag off his smoke. When the guy starts baiting him he shrugs "Something like that...." The Ghost, or rather John Carmichal was the ORIGINAL OG once upon a time. Like...when Gangsters came into being. He'd spent his teens, and twenties working for the mob during the Depression. If it hadn't been for World War II, he probably would have died, or at least come as close to it as he ever does, long before that fateful attack which had put him in the modern era. "Tell ya what, fella, how 'bout you come clean....you know 'bout all this...I know you know, so let's stop wavin' our dicks at each other. Odame's someone I'm interested in finding. I'm a dick, that's what I do....find things, people...ferret out people's dirty laundry...." he says "And sometimes I clean up messes....someone beat me to this mess, but someone else's lookin' for this Odame guy too it sounds like...and me, I've always been of the opinion that it's easier to find what you're looking for, when you compare notes with someone else lookin' for the same thing." he shrugs, flicking his spent cigarette into the fire, and pulling his mask back down. "So what's it gonna be, slim? You wastin' my time, or what?" The somewhat out-of-place Cowboy seems to consider this for a long moment, lighting up a cigarette of his own from an old-fashioned case not that different from the one Carmichal carries. He takes a few moments to study the PI vigilante from that hard-to-read leathery puss he wears, as if getting the other man's measure. "I ain't at liberty to give you that information." The information comes as the man drops one flap of his own worn overcoat to the side to display a holstered revolver; one that looks too old to still be in service, and glows lightly, darkly from several of its ornate etchings. "Here to watch, not to care an' to share." He does, however, explain that much. It has the air of respectful admission, right down to displaying the armament, rather than hostility or threat. The Cowboy takes a long, chaserless swig from his bourbon. The guy /has/ to be -far- too sloshed to fight, right? Perhaps he's just an idiot. "Make you a deal though. Call it command privilege." 'cause he has just a huge, obvious squad waiting on his word how the mission proceeds, right? "You tell me who's hunting Odame, an' why, and I'll get you a sit-down with the guy who's reachin' out to him. Can ask -him- whatever you want." The Cowboy grins, somewhere between dangerous and amused-- after all, from where he's sitting, it's the Boss who better like -this- guy's answers. The ghost considers this. As the man shows off his weapon, he just nods "Good to know...." he says "I'm hunting Odame...if you wanna know who I'm workin' for...well, that's priveleged information." he says "I ain't at liberty to give it." he says parroting the other man's words. "As for why...well, shit, even I don't know that...I doubt it's for anything good, if I'm gonna be straight with you." he says "And if that's the fact, then that'll be another mess I'll clean up." he says indolently. "So, tell your boss to give me a ring-a-ding...." he flicks a card down. If the man looks at it, all that is on the card are the words "Silver Ghost", in oldfashioned raised tinfoil print, and a black printed phone number, obviously a cell phone. Probably some sort of burner phone, or untracable number. Could be anyone's guess. One grey brow arches smoothly at the echo, and its accompanying assertion, but the Cowboy winds up just nodding, and slouching back into the chainlink fence behind him with a metallic rattle. "Anyone serious enough to send a man like Odame as deep underground as he's dug is a real problem." The old gunfighter admits, intimates softly. If still gruffly. There's another pause as his head tilts at the vigilante, and the Cowboy frowns deeply. Then, a decision is made. "The kind that makes messes it's better to head off at the pass. Boss figured it was only a matter of time before they poked their heads in-- maybe you're it, but I doubt it. Either way, kind o' mess it pays to be on the right end of, when shit hits." He drags himself up from the ground and plucks up the card, stuffing it into a pocket without concern for the pristine corners. "Just be careful who yer choosin' to protect. Unless you got a real morbid fondness for your namesake." The old gunfighter punctuates, with a tip of his hat. Something about this guy doesn't leave the operative inclined to let him walk into the meet with no clue what Jackie Estacado is about; it's a cover that could get Carmichal killed, after all, and he's rather fond of the agent-- much as the old man ever is. The grizzled gunman offers over a swig of bourbon, straight from the bottle. The Ghost accepts the bottle, lifting his mask to take a swig, and hand it back. He winces visibly, and chuckles "Here....try this on for size, slim..." he says reaching inside his trench coat, and producing a silver flask. He hands it over. Inside is what was 10 year old scotch...62 years ago, when he purchased a truckload of it. "I'm already a dead man, gramps...as for who I protect? I protect the one I respect...and I only respect the one that ain't a dirtbag." he says with a shrug. "But a man gives his word, even if it's to the devil...he's gotta keep it right? Even a dead man like me." he says. It's certainly better than the alcohol he's drinking tonight, though he's several sheets past properly appreciating the taste and body of the aged liquor. The Cowboy does, however, punctuate his first draught with another. "They like t'say dead don't have any variation. What's dead is dead is dead, all that matters is what precedes it." There's a pause, and the bottle is traded back; a bit reluctantly. "Make a dangerous oath to the wrong man, that's a problem a man's got to deal with." He's not making any apologies about the warnings this path comes with, no. "But lemme tell you. Dead ain't dead ain't dead." There's an ominous, almost fear-touched note to that-- a warning from experience, or superstition most firm. "You'll respect the Boss." It's more prediction than mandate, "Just make sure you give 'em ample reason to return it." The Ghost accepts the flask back, tucking it away. He wasn't drinking as much these days, or smoking as much either, it seemed. Boy howdy the difference a love-life made. He snorts quietly at the old bum's words concerning dead. "Preachin' to the choir here, slim...." he says "Dead men don't walk and talk, and yet here I am...dead four times over spread across 6 decades." he says "If he's worth the respect, then he'll have it. I am what I am, he don't respect me...well, not much to do 'bout that is there?" he says sounding unpurturbed by the warning "But I appreciate the warning all the same." he says, before pulling out the flask again and handing it over. "keep it. Consider it finder's fee." he says before drifting back toward his car. "Maybe see you around, slim...don't freeze out here, huh?" he says. There's a simple, singular nod to respond to every bit of what Carmichal says-- the Cowboy has said his piece, and apparently doesn't much disagree with anything that's left. Even if he does file away the information on who the Silver Ghost is-- or who he claims to be-- for later consideration. "Not much chance o' that." The old gunman observes, sipping on the flask of Scotch and following it up with a long, gulping pull of what's left of his bourbon. A pensive glance is turned towards the dockyard grounds as Carmichal moves back to his car, a patch of shadow subtly rustling near the gunman's gaze. There is no conversation to overhear, however, before the old gunfighter moves off in another direction, down the access roads winding between warehouses and facilities. Category:Log